


You're Just Another Recovering Heart

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Clarke’s still looking at him when he finally brings himself to turn away, her gaze impossibly soft, but it’s the way she says his name that breaks him, in the end. “Bell.”He closes his eyes, the motion reflexive. “Letters,” he says finally, sounding absolutely wrecked, despite himself. “They’re letters I wrote to you, while you were gone.”Bellamy gets into the habit of writing letters to the girl he left behind in the six years they’re apart. But as it turns out, Clarke’s alive, and she’s read them. (Or: the fallout of a love confession six years in the making.)





	You're Just Another Recovering Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bellamehblake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamehblake/gifts).



> I wrote this in two days in an attempt to gift this on Alice's _actual_ birthday, but I also suck and am terrible at deadlines so here it is, one WHOLE week late. But ANYWAY, here you go babe: 100% angst, just for you. I think I've maxed out my angst count for the next fifteen years.

**_____________**

**Year One**

They find the books a week after, during one of Raven’s routine inspections of the ship.

“Paper,” she nods, fingers flying across her tablet as she logs that into the system. It doesn’t hold her attention for long, if the way her eyes are roving the small space is any indication— fingers tapping against the side of her thigh, swivelling on her heel in search for something else. Something they can use, something they actually need _._ Raven is nothing if not pragmatic.

“Take the blankets, and the clothes, and the protein packs,” she says finally, frowning down at her screen. “We can leave everything else.”

He gives a curt nod, kicking lightly at the edge of one of the rolled piles of fabric so it sends motes of dust swirling up in the air. “You don’t think we should use the space.”

(It’s not a question. It almost never is, with Raven. She’s easy to read, even by Murphy’s standards. Her anger is edged and biting and _loud_ ; her grief quiet and self-contained and punctuated with the sharp noise of a hammer striking metal.

It’s different, with Clarke. But he supposes everything is, without her.)

“I think it’s a little far-off from the main quarters for it to be used as anything else.”

 _Except a library,_ he nearly says, reaching out involuntarily to sweep his fingers over the worn spines, the dusty book jackets. The words are on the tip of his tongue, the idea coming together despite himself. Shelves, and neat lines of books, and faint, fractured light trickling in from the windows. Clarke would love it. He can practically see it, if he thinks about it long enough. The pink of her cheeks, the slight upturn of her mouth. The brightness in her eyes.

( _This is it,_ she would tell him, solemn and thrilled in equal measure, knocking her elbow against his. _The makings of a civilisation._ There’d be pride in her eyes, and doubt creasing at her brow, and in another world, maybe, he’d be brave enough to reach out, to press his thumb against it, smooth it away.

But in this one, all he manages to do is stare. She’d catch him looking and turn away, that small, wry smile playing on her lips.

 _What,_ she’d ask, glancing up at him ruefully. Teasing, almost. _Didn’t think you’d ever see this outside your history books?_ )

“Bellamy?”

He snaps out of his stupor, breathing hard. In that split second, it felt real, somehow. Her voice, and her warmth, and the cock of her chin. The slow, even slide of her gaze that is all Clarke.

Except in this world— in _his_ world— Clarke is dead.

He left her behind, and she’s not coming back.

“Leave it,” he bites out, running a palm over his face. There’s gravel in his throat and a storm fucking _roaring_ in his chest and even the effort of heaving air into his lungs seem to hurt. “We’ll burn the books for warmth if you can’t get the heating systems up and running.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just nods. He manages one in response, turning away.

They move on.

 

+

Bellamy doesn’t sleep much anymore.

He tells himself that it has nothing to do with the nightmares—of flayed skin and raw, red blisters and bones bleached a unearthly white under the sun— and everything to do with the constant hum of the Ark’s machinery, the gurgling noise that Murphy makes after every fifth snore.

This time, he lasts up to an hour before he kicks off his sheets, sliding out from between Monty and Raven. Temperature control isn’t up and running just yet, so they’ve taken to huddling together for warmth in the nights. It’s funny, because he’s pretty sure that they’ve all wanted to kill each other at some point in time. (He brings it up over dinner, once, and Raven rolls her eyes and Harper sighs and he tries not to think about how he knows who would have appreciated his particularly ill-timed and macabre joke.)

Monty stirs as he grabs at the torch, fumbles for his belt. “Bell’my?”

He pauses, his arm already halfway through one jacket sleeve, knife stashed hastily in his boot— a habit he hasn’t been able to break despite the fact that they’re effectively trapped in the safe, sterile white walls of the Ark. “Yeah?”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No,” he manages, after a beat. Then, for good measure, “Go back to sleep.”

That earns him some incoherent mumbling on Monty’s part, his hand flailing uselessly in the air as if to compel him back to bed. He’s still muttering something under his breath by the time he drifts off, breaths evening out and settling into the quiet.

The sight of it makes him smile, despite himself. “Sweet dreams,” he murmurs, before crossing the room and slipping out.

It’s not like he has any place in mind, so he ends up wandering the corridors instead, checking and double-checking to make sure everything is in place. He’s no engineer, but Raven and Monty have taught him the basics: The valves on the left have to be twisted at a ninety degree angle. Gauges to be set at the same level. Big, red flashing lights are generally a bad sign.

_That tends to be a common pattern for most things, yes._

He closes his eyes reflexively against the sound of her voice, fighting back the sudden wave of vertigo threatening to overtake him. But even in the dark, he sees her. He feels her, a presence so large and fucking omnipresent that it fills every crevice, every corner of the space he inhabits.

(It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. She’s always been good at that, even back when he hated her.)

“Yeah,” he says, because _fuck_ it, he _misses_ her, and there’s no harm in talking to a dead girl when there’s no one around to witness it. “Damn scientists. Always thinking that explosions and shit getting blown up is an exclusive experience or something.”

He can feel her smile, the weight of her arm brushing up against his as they walk. “You’re just saying that because you thought it would be a good idea to blow up a tunnel with a blowtorch, once.”

“It _was_ a good idea, you have to admit.”

“You think every idea that puts yourself at risk is a good one.”

The disapproval is clear in her voice, her tone chiding, and it sounds _so much_ like her that it gives him pause, swaying slightly in place before he gives up and sinks to the ground. He has no idea where he is, but the cool metal feels good against his feverish skin. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he tells her, releasing a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t.”

Her fingers are warm against his cheek. Soft. Alive. “I always do.”

It’s quiet when he finally opens his eyes. His face is wet, but Clarke’s gone, and he has to take a second to acclimate himself to his surroundings. There’s four walls, and a huge bay window. An overturned mug with a scattering of pencils and shavings on the floor. Books, the pages fluttering slightly in a phantom breeze.

He blinks, reaching for the nearest copy. Back when the Ark was still functioning, paper books was a rarity, and everyone just read on their tablets. The novelty of it is a little lost on him, considering his stint on the ground, but he can still appreciate the weight of it in his hands, the rustle of paper against his skin. This one’s thin and weathered and when he flips to the front page, he finds a inscription; the person’s writing barely decipherable in the half-dark.

 

_Dear Leah,_

_I hope this is a good gift for your first day of college. We love and miss you more than you know._

_xx, dad_

 

 _We love and miss you more than you know._ He says it under his breath for a few minutes, sounding out the words, dragging it apart until all he can hear is thump of his uneven pulse, the curl of his name when it rolls off her tongue.

Then, when the sentence finally loses all meaning, he reaches for a pencil, and adds an inscription of his own.

 

+

_Dear Leah,_

_I hope this is a good gift for your first day of college. We love and miss you more than you know._

_xx, dad_

 

_Dear Clarke,_

_Come home._

_Bellamy._

 

+

(He doesn’t know how long he sits there, reading a rapidly falling apart copy of _Never Let Me Go,_ but he can make out the sun hovering up above him when he looks up— back _aching_ and muscles sore from staying in the same position all night.

The book is heavy with his messy scrawl by the time he finishes, letters to her interspersed in the margins and the edges and in any space he could manage. _Dear Clarke, I’d do anything to see your face again._ A shaky underline of a sentence, _this feels like something you’d like,_ and _you would think this,_ and finally: _Dear Clarke, every love story feels like a ghost story now._

There’s a part of him that’s tempted to take the book with him, really, but the thought of anyone else finding it— of anyone else _reading_ it; his feelings for Clarke, his grief for her, his loss— makes him go cold. The thought of Raven burning it is even worse.

In the end, he settles for popping open the panel in the floor, stashing it in the small, dark space that his sister once called him home. There’s something to be said about the irony of the situation, and he finds himself smiling just a little when he slides the hatch back into place.

No one says anything when he emerges in the living area for breakfast, thankfully, and the rest of his day is as uneventful as he expects it to be, and when night falls, he’s back in the room again, pencil in hand and a copy of _Station Eleven_ in the other, and this is how it starts.)

 

**Year Two**

_Dear Clarke,_

_It’s day 393 of algae stew, and all I can think about is how much you’d have hated it._

_Remember that one time in Winter, when every fucking thing was dying around us and all we could manage was rabbit all season long? Jesus, you were so fucking cranky. You bit my head off when I asked if there was any alcohol you could spare from the med bay because the camp needed a morale boost, and of course sterilizing the-bedpans-are-more-important- Bellamy, what a fucking question to ask._

_Jasper sneaked off with a bottle anyway. I knew you were trying to be cool about it, but there was that little twitch by your jaw the entire time, and you were snapping at everyone who looked at you a little too long. Finn told you to chill, and I thought you’d deck him right there. Fuck, it was hilarious._

_You’re gonna laugh, but, I used to love seeing you all riled up. I know, I’m a fucking dick, but. I liked that I knew exactly which buttons to push to get under your skin, just like you knew exactly how to get under mine. I liked that we paid enough attention to know that about each other._

_Also, you’re cute when you’re mad. Don’t hit me._

_Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, after you went to bed, I snuck out. Went to the meadow with all those butterflies and gathered whatever flowers I could find, and mind you, it was close to fucking impossible because it was in the middle of the goddamn winter, but I managed a small bouquet anyway. Stole some twine from Raven’s tent, after, and I left that pile for you in the medbay where I knew you’d find it._

_Rabbit again for breakfast, the next day. But I caught you smiling a little to yourself, so I knew it worked._

_I guess I wish I told you. That it was me, that is. It shouldn’t matter now, but it still feels like it does._

_Bellamy._

 

He dashes off his name, making sure to be careful not to press too hard against the page. It’s late, and his eyes are stinging with the effort of reading in the low light, but it’s nice to relieve this little memory to himself; to be able to think of something beyond the cold, grasping reach of space.

“I bet you thought it was Finn,” he says, because it’s late, and no one’s around to hear him talk to a dead girl anyway. Bellamy tilts his head back, squinting out and into the dark, and just like that, he thinks he finds a star. “It’s bad to speak ill of the dead,” he manages, closing his eyes. There’s something unbearably light in his chest, a warmth, almost, and when the words slip out, they’re fond. “But fuck that guy anyway.”

 

+

They’re not thriving. Not as far as he can tell, as of yet, but they’re doing better now, and that counts for something.

“I tweaked with this batch’s formula, just a little.” Monty beams, doling out today’s dinner of algae stew with all the false enthusiasm of someone being lined up in front of a firing squad. “It should has a little more texture, now. Kind of like oatmeal.”

He exchanges a wary glance with Emori, seated directly across from him, her fingers a blur as she twirls a chess piece between them. She found the board a few days back, and he’s been teaching her how to play during the dull moments. It’s surprising how much he enjoys it, as surprising as how much he’s grown to like her company. Emori’s smart, and sharp, and funny, and Bellamy doesn’t trust her, but he likes her. She’d slit his throat and cook him over the stove without batting an eyelid if they ever run out of algae, but he’ll admit that there’s something admirable about that.

“Sounds good,” he forces out, accepting his share reluctantly. Everyone else is already delving into their bowls, expressions carefully blank, and he has to bite his lip to hide the smile threatening to show on his face. Their calm neutrality seems to set Monty on edge even more, really, and watching it all play out is probably going to be the most entertaining part of the day.

It’s quiet for a while, the only sound being the metallic scrape of their spoons against tin.

Murphy breaks first, grunting out a half hearted, “It’s alright, I guess.”

That gets Monty to perk up, at any rate. “Yeah?”

He takes a big swig of water, swishing it around his mouth a few times exaggeratedly. “Yeah,” Murphy says finally, arching a brow over at them. “Better than that crap Griffin tried to get us to eat our first summer on the ground. All those fucking roots and berries and shit.”

Raven laughs, the sound low and lingering and _delighted_ , more than anything, and Bellamy can’t help but wonder when it’d be the same for him, too— when he’ll be able to reminiscence about Clarke with longing, with fondness, and without fucking feeling as if he’s been punched right in the gut.

“Yeah, I remember,” she says, shaking her head. There’s a rare smile playing at her lips, though, wide enough that he catches sight of teeth. “But that’s Clarke. Always trying to play martyr, always trying to make sure we didn’t get a too-high cholesterol, or something. Her list of priorities were always a little skewed.”

Murphy says something in return, his tone scathing, but Bellamy’s stopped listening anyway. It’s the smart thing to do, considering how listening them talk about Clarke like she’s dead, like she’s _gone_ — permanently, forever, finite— might drive him to put his fist through the wall. He concentrates on the game before him, instead, pushing his rook forward with his thumb.

Emori glances up at him at that, her expression unreadable. Then, flatly, “I never liked her, you know.”

He falters, his knight slipping slightly between his fingers.

It’s not all that much of a stretch. They’re too different, he knows, and the tension in the lab back when they’d been trying to test out the nightblood is not going to be something Emori can just let go of. Clarke may have took the leap, in the end, but it’s hard not to resent someone for being revered, for being spared on the pretense of being invaluable to the cause.

“She didn’t make it easy for anyone to,” he says, planting his piece on the board with a pointed _thunk._ No one’s paying attention to them, at least, and that somehow makes it easier for his voice to hold steady. “That’s just how she is.”

Emori makes a small, non-committal noise in return. “How she is?”

He pauses, taking a deep breath to calm himself. His skin feels cold, clammy, and the sudden vice-like grip around his neck is making it hard to breathe. “How she was,” he says through clenched teeth, maneuvering his pawn over hers and claiming her rook.

And in that split second, she shifts her pawn, drawing it up to his king, now left out in the open. “Checkmate.”

He blinks, staring down at his ravaged kingdom, the toppled remains of his soldiers in a pile by her elbow. “Huh,” he says, impressed despite himself. “Good game.”

She shrugs, and the look she shoots him is almost pitying, if Emori was even capable of summoning such an emotion in the first place. “I saw weakness,” she tells him, nonchalant. “So I pounced.”

 

+

_Dear Clarke,_

_I read somewhere that the dead don’t hold power over the living. It’s hard to believe that when you’re still my achilles heel, despite everything. I think I hate you a little for that._

_Bellamy._

 

**Year Three**

It’s a fucking awful day, right from the get-go.

Their air filters blow out just after lunch, leaving Raven and Monty incapacitated all day and the rest of them on tenterhooks, walking around in their bulky, thick spacesuits all whilst trying to get things done. Harper isn’t speaking to Monty, for various reasons, and Murphy and Emori won’t stop bickering over whose turn it is to swap out the modulators, and Echo is skulking around, mostly, just being _Echo,_ so of course it culminates into a screaming match between all six of them by the time dinner rolls around.

He knows it’s inevitable, really, knows that three years in close quarters with the _same_ people, _all_ the time is bound to lead to friction, but— it should be easier, right? It should be getting easier at some fucking point of time, instead of it _constantly_ being a minefield of hurt feelings and tension and anger.

It’s as frustrating a situation as it is a unsolvable one, really, so Bellamy is dealing with it the best way he can.

By getting absolutely, and definitively _bombed_ on the bottle of vodka he’s been saving for the last two years.

“Fuck,” he swears, frowning down at the beads of blood sliding down the length of his finger.

Prying off the lid of a sealed can of beans he recovered from the kitchen is a bad idea, evidently, but the haze of alcohol has numbed him from most of the pain. Cursing, he chucks the can aside, feeling a small surge of triumph at the racket it makes when it lands on the other side of the room.

He snarls his approval, letting his head thump back against the wall. His anger burns hot in his veins, all-consuming in a way that he hasn’t let it be, not ever since the bunker, not since she absolved him of his sins and told him that he could be better. The memory fills his mouth with the taste of bile, makes him go a little nauseous with it, because _fuck_ Clarke Griffin, really.

“Liar,” he slurs out, chugging back another mouthful of vodka. It burns when he swallows it down, making him gag. “You’re such a— goddamn shit fuck liar, Clarke.”

She’s not there— she never is, he knows this after three years— but he can practically see the pinch of her brow at it, the purse of her lips. Hands on hips and closing the space between them, braced for a fight. The thought of it makes him _ache_ so badly that it’s a wonder he’s still breathing through it.

“You’re not going to be by yourself,” he spits, throwing his arm out uselessly, the motion nearly sending him off-balance and sprawling. He has to grab onto the side of his desk to keep himself upright, swearing even harder than before. “You don’t have to do this _alone._ Well, ha, fucking _ha,_ Clarke! Because I am! Because that’s _exactly_ what’s happening!”

His vision is going blurry, now, his thoughts sluggish, but she’s still in focus, somehow. Just her. Clarke, with her hair braided back and her skin clean of blood and her head tilted back to look up at him.

“Hey,” she says, her brow knitting. “Hey _._ Bellamy, look at me. Focus on the sound of my voice.”

 _I am,_ he tries to say, but the vodka is bitter and choking and he thinks he finds blood between his teeth when he runs his tongue over it. _I always am. That’s the problem._

“ _Bellamy_.”

And he’s not sure if it’s hearing his name slip off her lips that does it for him, really, or if it’s just the alcohol fully hitting his system but he can feel his legs give out, pitching forward. She catches at his arms before he falls, a alarmed cry escaping, and he feels his knees crack against the ground once before she’s hauling him up, settling him back against the wall.

The anger rushes out of him all at once, leaving him feeling cold and small and defeated. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, breathing hard, dropping his head to his knees. “It’s just— _fuck_. I’m so mad at you, for leaving. For always leaving. I’m tired of being the one that’s left behind, picking up the _fucking_ pieces without you, and—”

The words die in his throat, trailing off into a plaintive hiccup instead. Lifting his head is a mistake if the way everything sways is an indication, and even Clarke is nothing but a smudge of colors now, distant and faraway.

“I didn’t want to,” she tells him, her voice breaking. “I— I fought to get back to you. I tried so fucking hard, Bellamy. But the satellite was jammed, and I just— I had to. I did it to save you, to save everyone else. I could never forgive myself otherwise.”

He’s tired now, a bone-deep kind of tired that makes it impossible to keep his eyelids open. “Okay.”

“I didn’t want to leave you,” she murmurs, fucking _earnest_ in a way that breaks his heart. “I never wanted to.”

It’s everything he’s dreamt she would say, everything he hoped she would since the first time she walked away, disappearing through the gates and into the wilderness. An assurance that he means as much to her as she does to him, that she would find him, always, despite the odds— like he would for her.

And that’s how he knows it’s all a dream, that it’s all happening in his head, and the realization is a relief as much as it is devastating.

“I know,” he tells her, closing his eyes. “But you still did, in the end.”

He thinks she says his name, pulling him back. Bellamy sleeps.

 

+

_Dear Clarke,_

_The Odyssey is fucking pain to live through when you’re the one doing the waiting._

_Bellamy._

 

+

(When he wakes, it’s to another dream.

He knows it is, because in this one, Clarke is lying next to him, nose to nose, their fingers interlaced. When he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together, he can feel her breath, warm against his skin.

“Don’t go,” he says, his voice muzzy from sleep, tripping over the words. “Please.”

Her fingertips are light against his skin, tracing down the length of his arm, settling into the jut of his hip. “Don’t let me,” she whispers, and he knows it’s futile even when he tightens his grip on her, his knuckles going white with it. She still fades.)

 

+

He knows he’s well and _truly_ awake when he feels the splitting headache come on, explosions of color going off behind his eyelids when he shifts.

“Jesus,” he grumbles, cracking an eyelid open. There’s faint light coming in from the windows, making him wince, and his mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “Jesus, fuck.”

“No, just Murphy,” a voice drawls, kicking at his shin and making him hiss in pain. “You don’t have to get all formal on me, now.”

It’s an effort to get his gaze to focus on the figure before him, every part of his body rebelling when he forces himself into a upright position, squinting. “Murphy?”

“Try not to wear it out, Blake.”

“But—” he stops, memories from the night before flooding in sickening clarity. Drinking himself stupid. Arms breaking his fall. _Clarke._

Something must show on his face, because even Murphy looks hesitant; that smug, stupid smirk falling away. He recovers just as quickly, though, shoulders jerking up into a shrug. Then, lazily, “Hey, everyone falls off the rails sometimes, right?”

He looks away, shame and gratitude welling up his throat in equal measure. “Yeah. I’m just— I should—”

“That’s what I thought,” Murphy cuts in, grabbing at his shirt and forcing him to his feet, nearly toppling the both of them in the process. He pats at his back, the motion sloppy, and the idea that this is Murphy’s twisted idea of showing affection cheers him up ever so slightly.

“Now, c’mon.” He continues, gruff, tossing him his jacket. “The panels by the generators are loose again, and I need you to strongarm that back into place.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy manages, tamping down the urge to lie back down, to go back to that world where Clarke still exists, alive and whole before him. “Okay,” he says, exhaling shakily, taking a hesitant step forward. Then another. One more, and he’s through the door.

He can feel Murphy’s eyes on his back the entire time, and it strengthens his resolve, more than ever. His friends need him, his _people,_ and he’d be damned if he lets them down. Not again. Not ever. It’d be disrespectful to her memory, somehow, the one person who believed in him when no one else would.

Maybe they can’t do this together, anymore, but he can do it for her.

Rolling his shoulders back, he straightens to his full height, limping out with as much dignity as he can muster. “You coming or what?” he calls out, biting at the inside of his cheek to taper a smile when that pulls a litany of muttered curses from him.

 

**Year Four**

_Dear Clarke,_

_Now, this might be news to you but five is a lot more of a manageable number than a hundred. Shocking, huh? No one’s dead yet, and Monty grew a tomato just yesterday (misshapen and sad and the seeds were huge, but a tomato more or less) so I think I’m doing a passable job._

_If you were here, you’d probably something cheesy about me selling myself short, or something. You’ll be all indignant, and I’ll find it way more funny than I should._

_I’ll be honest, though: I think I’ll do just about anything to see your face again. I woke up the other day, and I couldn’t remember the exact color of your eyes. Raven said they were green, and Monty said blue, and we sat there for a while, trying to reconstruct you from pure memory and it was just a disjointed, fractured mess and we were drunk and in hysterics by the end of it. It was more funny than sad, though, I promise._

_Raven remembers your hands, best. You kept your nails short, and she always found that unbefitting of your Princess image. Monty said your hair would be nice if you washed it more. (I’ll admit, I laughed at that one). I told them about your smile, how one side always inched a little higher than the other. Then Monty started talking about Jasper, and Raven brought up Sinclair and it was nice. It was nice to talk about the dead without feeling I’d sink under the weight of them._

_I still carry you with me, wherever I go. It just hurts a lot less, now. I think you’d be happy to hear that._

_Bellamy._

 

+

He’s taken to sitting by one of the large bay windows after dinner, just to read or gaze out or, occasionally, to get some work done, but it’s not like there’s much for him to handle anyway. They’ve reached a point where they’re comfortable and safe and maybe even _thriving_ , really, and there’s a rhythm to their routines now that he can’t help but appreciate.

It’s not peace, not entirely. But it’s the closest he’s come to it in a while.

He’s working his way through a complex set of navigational charts that’s supposed to bring them down to North America in a year or so when Raven comes bounding up to him, thrusting her tablet out into his hands. “Here.”

Knowing Raven, it’s hard not to eye the device before him with some suspicion. “What is it?”

She makes a impatient noise, throwing her hands up frustratedly. “Just open it!”

“What if I don’t _want_ to?”

“Trust me, you want to.” Monty interjects, grinning as he flops down onto the space next to him. “And if you don’t, I’m sure Murphy will be more than happy to take that off your hands.”

“I _heard_ that, Green!”

“I meant for you to,” he shoots back, giving a exasperated shake of his head. Then, leaning over conspiratorially, “Seriously. I think he’s about three seconds away from coming down here himself to grab it, so you have to move quick.”

It’s hard to take anything seriously when they’re all looking at him like that, all _expectant,_ and he lifts at the tablet, quirking a brow over at them. “Is it an explosive? Is the punchline going to be that it blows up in my face when I boot it up?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“ _I’ll_ do it,” Emori cuts in irritably, appearing out of nowhere and sidling up to him in one smooth motion. “Seriously, Bellamy. What makes you think we’d do anything to harm you?”

“Uh, all the other times you’ve tried?”

She waves him off, dismissive. “That was just good natured fun.”

“That pipe could have _decapitated_ me, I’ll have you know.” He says, mild. There’s also the incident with a butter knife and Raven’s staple gun, but he loses his train of thought the second she hands the tablet over, the screen lighting up with a image of someone’s face.

 _His,_ to be exact.

It’s the picture off his Ark ID, brows drawn and hair slicked back and looking just about as pissed off as it can get. Eighteen and _angry,_ his expression stony and jaw set and he remembers, then, how everyday on the Ark had felt like he was being pinned under glass, how it felt like he was being suffocated slowly.

Earth was supposed to be a reprieve. He can’t help but see the irony of it, now, stepping from one prison into the other.

Still, it’s hard to stay angry about something that feels like has happened a lifetime ago. He can feel a grin spread across his face unconsciously, his gaze landing on the lines of text next to his picture, detailing his shooting of Jaha, the escape onto the Dropship—

A laugh escapes before he can help himself, the sound sudden and startling, and he has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep it from dissolving into a series of very ugly chortling because, well, _fuck._

It’s kind of _funny._

“I know,” Raven says, a smile twitching at her lips, barely managing to hold herself back. “If I had hair like that back when I was eighteen, I’d laugh too. And then promptly die of embarrassment after.”

“Shut up, Reyes. Like you’re any better.”

“I made good hair choices in my heyday!”

He snorts, swiping through the series of photos until he gets to hers— winning grin, hair pulled up into a ponytail, a few wisps escaping. She looks good. _Young_. Monty, too, his smile infectious and eyes bright.

(They had really just been kids, when they were sent down to earth to die. The thought is bittersweet.)

“Hey, go back a few. I want to see if Murphy had grey hairs even back when he was eighteen.”

“Wait, wait. I think I saw that prick Mbege, too. Go back to that.”

He tilts the tablet out of the way, lifting it closer to his face to keep it away from the tangle of hands reaching for it. “Look at it on your own tablets,” he declares authoritatively, “I’m going at my own—”

His breath stutters when the next image loads, bringing up a familiar face. Clear, penetrating gaze. Tilted chin, a half smile. _Clarke_. He lets his gaze rove over her, shamelessly taking in every detail, every crease and curve that he’s forgotten over the past few years.

“It’s a good picture,” Monty says, soft. “I almost forgot how she looked like without all the blood and scars.”

A elbow in his side, pointer than most. Raven. “I almost forgot how she looked like with clean hair.”

“Shut up,” he says automatically, but he can feel himself smiling anyway. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

Emori leans over, chin resting on the jut of his shoulder. They’re all seated close, now, all touching in some way or the other. Knees, elbows, a clumsy tangle of limbs and heat. His people, his _family._ The thought of it sends another jolt of warmth through him, settling the flurry of feelings rising in his chest at the reminder of her, of his best friend and confidant, and the girl he lost.

“Eh,” Emori says lightly, flicking at Clarke’s forehead. “I still don’t like her.”

He swats her hand away, shaking his head. “She didn’t make it easy to,” he says, the words a reminder of a different time, a different sort of grief. But this time, when he continues, it’s true. The words he’s always thought, but never dared voice. “But I loved her for it anyway.”

 

+

_Dear Clarke,_

_Sometimes I think about if you hadn’t interrupted me, that day on the beach. I’d like to have think that I would have told you. I’d like to think that you would have felt the same way, and that we’d have some sort of happy._

_But your faith in me has always been immovable, so I think you believed that I would have found my way to you, in the end. That we would see each other again. I’d like to think you believed that until the very last moment._

_I just wish I hadn’t failed you this once._

_Bellamy._

 

**Year Five**

Static.

Then, strangely enough, a voice.

He can barely make out what they’re saying, can barely even make out that what they’re saying is _english,_ even, but its presence is disconcerting, all the same. He pauses, sliding out from underneath the escape pod he’s been working on for the past hour. It’s a recent find on Raven’s part, a hulking, split-level structure, a little more reminiscent of the Dropship than the rocket they had arrived in. “Did you hear that?”

Raven doesn’t even look up from the tangle of wires in her hand. “It’s probably a crossed-wires situation,” she says absently, eyes narrowing in concentration as she picks at strand carefully. “Either that, or the people from the bunker or messing about with their radio, sending out signals.”

“That’s a good sign,” Monty says hopefully, peeking out from behind a pile of discarded engines and spare parts. “Means that _someone_ down there is alive, right?”

“Right,” he manages, for the lack of a better thing to say. Somehow, in that split second, he swears he hears someone call his name, but it’s probably just the air-vents.

 

+

_Dear Clarke,_

_Technical difficulties. I know, five years is five years, Bellamy. You were always such a stickler for punctuality._

_The next time I write to you, I’ll be walking the same ground that we did, once. It’s a nice thought._

_Bellamy._

 

**Year Six**

A few minutes back on earth, and they’re already under attack.

He loses sight of Raven and Emori in the scuffle, gets knocked unconscious shortly after, and wakes to the realization that his hands and feet are bound. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing that his friends are nowhere in sight, but it’s worrying, all the same.

Carefully, he rises to his knees, swaying slightly. His captors have their backs to him, the shadowy outlines of their guns propped up by the nearest tree trunk. With some skill (taught by Emori, during one of the long lulls in their fourth year) and luck, he should be able to worm free of his bindings. He’ll take off into the woods, and bide his time. Find his friends, hopefully. Then, he’ll head to the bunker.

He frees his hands first, and is just about halfway undoing the knot by his left leg when he realizes he’s not alone.

“Hey,” he says softly, careful not to startle her. She’s just a kid, all tangled hair and frightened eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I can help.”

She nods, the movement cautious, and he feels a rush of relief all the way down to his toes. She _understands_. That’s a positive. His grasp of Trigedasleng has always been rudimentary, at best, and this should make things proceed a little more smoothly.

“I’m Bellamy,” he tells her, easing out of his bindings before reaching for hers. He doesn’t work on them immediately, though, cocks a brow in question until she relents, stretching her bound hands out to him. “What’s your name?”

She blinks up at him, the tilt of her head reminding him, uncannily, of a bird’s. Small and delicate and _vulnerable_ , which is really not helping him feel any better about their current situation. “Bellamy?”

“Yeah, that’s my name,” he says, casting the length of rope aside and reaching for the ones on her feet. “What’s yours?”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just _stares,_ which is a little unnerving. “You’re really not _that_ good looking,” she says decisively, peering closer. “And you have a _beard._ ”

It’s an odd statement to make, but there’s no time to harp on it, especially when he hears a shout in the distance. Swearing, he yanks the rest of her bindings off, a bullet piercing the trunk behind him and another sending a spray of dirt flying. “C’mon!” he yells, dragging her by her arm and into the woods.

She seems to get ahold of herself by the time they’re running through the trees, shaking off her trepidation to grab at his arm. “Wait! I can bring us somewhere safe.”

“I’m—” he flinches when another bullet whizzes right past him, grazing at his cheek. What choice does he have? He makes a decision to trust her in that split second, nodding once. “Alright, lead the way.”

They take off further into the woods, the path winding and scattered. She picks up the pace a few minutes in, practically sprinting as they push past a few low branches hanging overhead, the air growing thick and quiet as they leave the chaos behind.

She slows when they approach a smaller thicket of trees, ducking low so she can show him a small, hidden opening, barely visible through a cluster of ivy. A tunnel, almost. “We’re here. Just go through, and we’ll be okay.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to argue, but she’s already scurrying away, disappearing from sight almost instantly. Every fibre of his being screams that this is a bad idea, really, but he’s out of options, and the thought of leaving a defenseless girl behind doesn’t sit well with him.

Steeling himself, he crouches low, and plunges forward.

The first thing he sees is a clearing, wide and ringed by even more trees than before. Then there’s the smouldering remains of a few logs, a small, wooden cabin—

Then a scream sounds from the left, and the next thing he knows, he’s facing down a barrel of a gun.

The girl is screaming something else, a warning, possibly, but it’s impossible to concentrate when he can feel cool metal kissing at his forehead, the familiar sound of a bullet sliding in its chamber. The fingers wrapped around the handle are pale, he notes, callused, with smudges of black over the knuckles—

He lifts his gaze as much as he dares, and staring back at him, is _Clarke._

Her hair is shorn short, and she’s paler and thinner than she once was, but the person before him is unmistakably and absolutely Clarke. There’s that mole right by her lip, and the scar over by left eyebrow, a souvenir from Mount Weather, and _fuck_ , he can’t _breathe_.

She stills, lips parting in surprise. Then, so soft he nearly misses it, “Bellamy?”

He’s lightheaded, now, with relief or shock, he can’t tell. “Clarke,” he says, sounding her name out on his tongue experimentally. He’s never had cause to, not in a while now, and it sounds foreign on his lips. “ _Clarke,_ ” he says again, because he can, and then the world is tilting before him and it dawns on him, a little too late, that he’s going to pass out—just as everything goes dark.

 

+

“Are you okay?”

He blinks, vision finally focusing on the figure hovering over him. There’s that crease between her brows, the one that comes up whenever she’s worried. He had forgotten about that. The dimple against her chin, the cluster of freckles by her jaw. All her little intricacies, her ticks— buried to the back of his mind, resurfacing only now.

“I’m fine,” he finally brings himself to say, the words sticking to his throat and making it hard to speak. Sitting up, he avoids her gaze, feeling strangely self-conscious. It’s dark out, now, but he can still feel the weight of her eyes on him, studying him as much as he wants to do for her.

He clears his throat, bites out, “How long was I out?”

“Just a few minutes,” she says, rising to her feet carefully. He follows suit, apprehension and _joy_ and disbelief still warring in his chest. It feels like a dream and a fucking nightmare, all at once, and it’s just— it’s _Clarke_.

(He has Clarke, standing right before him like he’s always dreamed about, and he’s _terrified._ Six years is a long time, after all, and it’d be presumptuous to think that they could slip right back into what they were, into what they meant to each other. Right?)

She hasn’t said anything either, he realizes, both of them just staring mutely at each other, and he wets at his lips, scrambling for something appropriate to say—

Then she makes this _sound;_ half a cry of relief, half muffled sob, and he catches her when she throws her arms out, the force of it staggering.

It takes a second for him to catch up, relief and pure fucking _happiness_ crashing into him all at once, making his knees go weak. He laughs, then, the sound shaky as he buries his face into her hair, and all she’s saying is his name, over and over again—

“It’s really you,” she breathes, and he can feel her lips at his shoulder, her sharp inhale when he pulls her closer. “You’re here.”

“And you’re alive,” he says roughly, breathing her in. She smells like the woods, like ash and grass and just, _Clarke_. He tightens his grip on her, holding her steady when she begins to sway, keeping her on her feet. “God,” he rasps, his voice breaking on the word. “This, Clarke. This, I remember.”

Her laugh is watery, and she’s squeezing him so tight it’s getting to be painful, but he’s not going to be the one to let go. He won’t. “You remember _this_ , but not me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, and he feels her smile against his skin once more before she’s pulling away, just far enough for him to look at her. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” she says, wiping at her face with the edge of her sleeve. He’s aware that his face is wet too, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it now. “I do.”

He smiles. “Good.”

“Good.”

She looks like she wants to say something else to that, but then he hears this delicate little _cough,_ and it finally occurs to him that they’re not alone.

“Sorry,” the girl smirks, throwing a pointed look over at Clarke. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

It doesn’t take a genius to get the insinuation behind it, and if the way Clarke flushes is any indication, she’s probably arrived at the same conclusion that he did. “Right,” she says briskly, turning away. “Uh, Bellamy this is Madi. She’s— a nightblood, like me. I found her a few years back.”

“Two,” Madi amends, shrugging. “It was two years.”

That pulls an eye-roll out of Clarke, though her voice is fond when she says, “I didn’t think he needed that much detail.”

“I was being _specific_ ,” she says, and he has to bite back a smile at the hint of petulance in her voice. “Anyway,” she continues, grinning over at him, “it’s nice to meet you officially, Bellamy.”

“... Officially?”

The look on Clarke’s face is best described as pained; Madi’s, _delighted._ “Oh, yeah,” she beams, nodding. “All of Clarke’s best stories are about you. My favorite is Mount Weather, when you went in as a spy, and—”

“That’s enough, Mads.” Clarke says sharply, her smile going britte. A beat, and he thinks he can pinpoint the exact moment she pulls herself together, regaining her composure. “Do me a favor and go grab the first aid kit, okay?” she nods, tilting her chin towards the littering of small bruises and cuts on her knees. “You have a couple of scrapes I want to look at.”

The sudden change in subject doesn’t seem to faze Madi, at least. “Okay,” she says, spinning on her heel. Then, brightly, “Be right back!”

They wait until she disappears from sight before Clarke seems to wilt, running a palm over her face exasperatedly. “Sorry,” she says, biting at her lip. “It was just— they made good story material when she was younger, and she has a memory like an elephant, you know, so—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts, catching at her wrist gently. He can feel the flutter of her pulse under his thumb, pumping hard and fast and clear. “It’s fine. It’s— bedtime story material. My mom used to read me all these Greek myths when I was kid, and it was just,” he stops, _hating_ how he can’t seem to find the right words, when he needs them. “I just— I know how it feels, okay? I worshipped them. Sometimes, one good story is all it takes to turn someone into a hero.”

She looks up at him, her expression serious. “She’s not far off the mark when it comes to you,” she says quietly, chin jutting out in silence defiance as if _daring_ him to challenge her on it.

(He doesn’t know what to say to that— he never does, in the face of her unwavering, absolute faith in his goodness, in her _belief_ in him, even six years after. He’s not sure what he’s done in this lifetime to deserve it, really, to deserve _her_ , but it must have been something good.

Fuck it. It must have been something great.)

She gives a little laugh when he flushes, ducking at his chin instinctively. “Same old, same old,” she teases, only this time, she twists out of his grip, sliding her hand down into his instead. “C’mon, Bellamy. We have a lot to catch up on.”

 

+

She tells him about surviving on her own the first few years, about Madi, about scrabbling through the rubble on her hands and knees, trying to get back to her mom. He tells her about the Ark, about the long days of quiet, about chess and books and leading the rest of them in whatever way he could.

“And now, they’re in trouble,” she confirms, staring down into the flames of the small fire they’ve built for warmth. “Because Eligius has them.”

He nods, clasping his hands together. “That’s about the gist of it, yeah. They got us when we were figuring our way to the bunker.”

She brightens at that, straightening in her seat. “So they don’t know about the pod you came down in?”

“Exactly,” he says, pitching forward on his elbows so she can take a look at the makeshift map he’s drawn, lines clumsy and barely decipherable. “We landed here for coverage, so it’s mostly concealed. It’s a good hiding spot too, so if any of the others made it out, this is where they’ll go back to.”

“And even if they’re not, it’ll be good to grab some supplies,” she agrees, rocking back on her heels. “We can leave in the morning, and be there by sundown.”

It’s not much of a plan, but it is _something._ Their speciality. “Sounds good,” he tells her, fighting back a smile. It’s late, with Madi already asleep in a pile of blankets next to her— and in the quiet, it feels like they’re both holding their breath, somehow. Waiting for the other to break.

As always, she takes the lead. “What?”

He arches a brow at her, parrots, “What?”

She snorts, the edges of her lips tugging upwards. “You’re _staring_.”

“So are you,” he points out, nudging at her knee with his own, and he knows he could leave it at that, really; knows that they can continue to tease and flirt and dance around whatever it is between them, but the thing is, he doesn’t _want_ to.

The last time he thought they’d have more time, that they’d have more _maybes,_ he lost her. He lost her for _six_ years.

He clears his throat, steeling himself. “I guess I’m just— I’m just looking at you, trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is real. That you’re _here.”_ His voice cracks on the word, his resolve slipping, and he has to take a second, his hands curling into fists instinctively. “I thought you were dead, Clarke. I _mourned_ you. And now I just,” he uncurls his hands, breathing hard. “You’re here. Against all odds. And I feel like if I look away, you might just disappear into thin air, and it’ll _break_ me, you get that? I can’t— I can’t do it, Clarke.” He stops, swallows. “I can’t lose you again.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, not right away, at least— but he can’t help but notice that her eyes are unnaturally bright, her fingers trembling when she reaches out to take his hand, holding on tight. “I’m here,” she whispers, and when she leans into him, pressing their foreheads together, he lets her. Her breath is warm against his cheek, just like how he thought it would be, and he can’t help but shiver against it. “I’m— I’m _here_ , Bellamy. And I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

He exhales, pressing into her touch. He can still feel it, though; the cold vestiges of fear lingering in his system, the prospect of waking up, alone and having dreamt it all, dangling at the forefront of his thoughts.

But for now, this is enough. It has to be.

“Okay,” he says simply.

“Okay,” she echoes, touching her fingers to her cheek.

(He only falls asleep after she does, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her form before he eventually drifts off, too.)

 

+

It takes them a little longer than expected to get to the pod, but there’s good news waiting for them, when they do.

He sees Harper first, emerging out into the clearing, and then there’s Monty, and _Raven,_ and they have their arms around him before he can really comprehend it, their laughter loud in his ears and filling him with relief.

“Jesus,” Raven swears, shoving at his shoulder. “I thought you were _dead,_ Bellamy. The last time I saw you, those Colony assholes had you knocked out cold.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, disentangling himself from them. He can feel a _stupid_ smile spreading across his face, instinctive, at this point, at the mere mention of her. It’s getting to be kind of a problem. “I had some help.”

He knows the exact moment they see her, really, because Harper gives a piercing shriek that leaves his ears ringing for a good half an hour, and Raven practically body-checks him into a tree to give her a hug. There’s a few tearful exchanges, and several more introductions doled out to Madi, and by the time they re-enter the pod, it’s dark out.

It’s quiet, inside— the remnants of their things still left in boxes and scattered around the edges of the cockpit. He surveys the room, crossing his arms over his chest reflexively. The absence of the rest of their team hollows him out, makes the victory from before feel a little more muted.

Raven catches his eye, shaking her head in a wordless confirmation. “No sign of the others yet,” she says quietly, tapping her fingers against the console. “We’re giving it until tomorrow before we come up with a plan to storm their camp.”

(There’s a part of him— the reckless, impulsive part, long tempered— that wants to tell them to charge right in _._ A part of him that wants to burst into the Colony’s campsite, guns blazing and weapons drawn to fight their way out, their friends in tow.

But that’s not who they are, now. It’s not who he is either.)

“Good plan,” he says instead, running a palm over his face. He’s grimy, and exhausted, and in _desperate_ need of a shower, and for a second, he almost finds himself missing the filthy communal bathroom back on the Ark. “Rest and recharge for the night,” he continues, “and we’ll get a early start for tomorrow.”

That earns him a muttered round of agreements around the group, and he looks up, meeting Clarke’s gaze. She’s smiling, and for some reason, the sight of it makes him flush all over.

It’s distracting enough that he doesn’t realize Monty’s talking to him, only tuning in mid-way through. “— or, you know, you could start us off by putting on a new set of clothes,” he pipes up, grinning. “And, I don’t know.” He makes a face, an exaggerated gesture with his hands. “Shaving, perhaps?”

The glare he sends his way is enough to leave Monty looking a little chagrined. “What’s wrong with my beard?”

“Uh, objectively? Nothing. Subjectively, on the other hand—”

“Fine,” he huffs, throwing his hands up. “Point taken. I’ll go change. Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“If they’re not in the boxes here, they’re upstairs.” Harper calls out, poking her head out from the small area they’ve sectioned off to be the kitchenette. “Your pack’s up there, too.”

He casts a cursory glance over to the stack of half-opened boxes, finding his. A hasty dig-through reveals that the pile is mostly books, along with a set of half-broken pens and pencils that he couldn’t bear to throw out.

Sighing, he turns away, loping towards the ladder leading up to the upper floor. Everyone seems to be off doing their own thing now, at least, so he has some time to clean up. Raven’s explaining something to a clearly enraptured Madi, Monty’s helping Harper, and Clarke—

She’s hovering by the middle of the room, looking a little lost. He feels a pang of guilt, then, for not considering how strange it must be for her to try to fit herself into all of this, to try and figure out where she stands in this new order of things.

“Hey,” he says gently, taking a automatic step closer. There’s nothing he can say that will fix this, but he can try, if anything. “Make yourself at home, okay?”

Her face softens at that, some of the caution from before melting away. “Okay.”

“Good,” he grins, swinging himself up the first rung of the ladder. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

+

He finds a fresh set of clothes after some effort, along with a towel that he douses with the remains of the bottled water they have stored so he can clean himself up. It’s not the most _ideal_ solution, but it’s the best he’s got, and at least it gets rid of the dirt caked under his nails.

The hatchway pops open just as he’s in the midst of buckling his belt, the jarring grind of metal startling him enough that he drops the wadded up towel in his hand.

“Shit,” Bellamy mutters, bending over to retrieve it. He has his back towards the door, so it’s not like he _knows_ who’s there, but the sentiment seems general enough to apply to everyone, anyway. “Jesus, you scared me.”

A beat, the silence dragging on long enough that he turns to look. “Clarke?” he frowns, drawing forward. The expression on her face is unreadable, teeth snagging against her bottom lip, and the combination of everything at once is enough to send him weak at the knees with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly, shooting him what he supposes passes as a reassuring smile. It doesn’t ease his doubts, though, considering how she looks a little unsteady on her feet. “It’s just— I found something.”

He pauses, chin cocked. “Okay…?”

She blows out a shaky breath, taking a careful step forward. “It was left out by one of the boxes,” she starts, “I didn’t think— I thought it was a shared thing. It was only once I read it—once I really looked at it— that I realized that it might be yours.”

None of it is making _sense_ to him, really, until she’s right in front of him, sliding something into his hands.

His marked-up copy of _Never Let Me Go,_ from all those years back.

He stills, staring down at the faded cover, the pages crinkling slightly in his grasp. It’s one of his favorites— _the_ favorite, if he’s being entirely honest— and also one of the books he keeps coming back to, adding more letters for her in the margins whenever inspiration strikes, in the blank spaces and in the too-faded pages.

In here, is a chronicle of possibly everything he’s felt for Clarke Griffin— every good thought, and every bad one. Every single complicated, overwhelming emotion he has had for her; every quiet, monumental thing he has done in her name.

It’s a love letter. It’s a goodbye. It’s his fucking _heart._

Clarke’s still looking at him when he finally brings himself to turn away, her gaze impossibly soft, but it’s the way she says his name that breaks him, in the end. “Bell.”

He closes his eyes, the motion reflexive. “Letters,” he says finally, sounding absolutely _wrecked,_ despite himself. “They’re letters I wrote to you, while you were gone.”

Another pause, this one longer than the last. “I figured.”

He releases a shuddering breath, forcing his eyelids open. Looking her in the eye with his feelings laid bare for her to see is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. “Did you read all of it?”

“Enough to get the gist,” she says, stepping into his space, and it’s only then he realizes that she’s _crying,_ her hands shaking when she lays them over his chest, at the very same spot she did all those years back, in a closed room on a dying planet. “But that’s not— that’s not the point, Bellamy. The point is, did you mean it? Do you— do you still?”

They’re close enough now that he can hear the hitch in her breath when he brings his face to hers, his hand going up to her cheek, and the laugh escapes before he can help himself because he doesn’t know how she can still be _asking_ him that, how she can still be wondering when he’s written _six_ years worth of letters—

“Always,” he says thickly, swallowing hard. “I think I might mean them until the day I fucking die, Clarke Griffin.”

She closes the distance between them, then, kissing him with a kind of intensity that steals all the air from his lungs, her hands twisting in his hair and his settling on the small of her back to keep her from falling over, laughing, and it’s everything he thought it would be and also nothing he imagined. He slows her frenetic pace eventually, though, keeping his kisses slow and coaxing until she’s shaking in his arms, her hands running down the length of his back.

They’re both out of breath by the time she pulls away, her hand now flitting over to the waistband of his pants. “I spoke to you on the radio for every day you were gone, you know,” she admits, the words muffled when she leans forward to kiss at his temple, the side of his left eye. “Every day, for the past six years. I missed you for all of it.”

He groans, hiding his smile against the crook of her neck, dropping a kiss there, too. “God. Are you saying we’re both equally pathetic for each other?”

“Yeah,” she tells him, looping her arms around his neck, and he senses her smile rather than sees it; bright and delighted and fucking _radiant_. “And in case it wasn’t clear,” she murmurs, before pulling him down for a kiss once more, “I love you too.”

 

+

He asks her for a love letter of his own, after, when they’re both tired and sated and when everything has gone utterly quiet.

She makes a small noise of protest, but doesn’t say no either. “Right _now_?”

He laughs, pinching at her side lightly and making her squirm, barely managing to dodge the smack she aims at his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be good,” Bellamy teases, nosing at her hair. “You can make it rhyme, for all I care.”

“That requires some sort of sustained effort too, you know.”

“Fine,” he sighs, playing idly at her hair. She has her face buried against his chest, one leg draped over his hip, and he’s content in a way that he’s never been before. “I’ll make it easy for you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “I’ll take morse code, even.”

That pulls a snort out of her, though he thinks he catches her smile before she turns away. “That’s a low, _low_ bar, Bellamy Blake.”

“I make a extraordinary amount of exceptions for you, Princess.”

She makes a small, absent noise of acknowledgment at that, both of them lapsing back into an easy, comfortable silence. It goes on for long enough that he thinks she might have actually fallen asleep, his own eyelids growing heavy when suddenly, she speaks.

“You have my heart, Bellamy Blake,” she says, her voice heavy with sleep, but steady, too, and he feels her fingers tracing at his ribs before she continues, “and if we ever lose each other again, know that I’ll never stop fighting to get back to you. That I’ll find my way back to you, despite the galaxies, and the cosmos, and whatever else that stands in our way.” A pause, her lips warm when she kisses at the space above his heart. “I love you and wherever it is you go, that’s where I’ll be, too.”

(It’s not something he didn’t already know, deep down; not something he should be surprised at, with everything that has happened— but he still feels a swell of emotion at it anyway, his eyes filling involuntarily.)

If she notices, she doesn’t say a word, sinking back into his side, her weight a warm reassurance. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he tells her, feeling the truth of her words settle against him; the words hers and hers alone, and above all, _real_ , “I’ll take it.”

**Author's Note:**

> tbh if they're any errors re: the space stuff, let it slide please? I wrote this in two days in varying caffeinated states so YEAH.


End file.
